Comrades in Arms
by Glowbug24
Summary: Emmy and Luke miss each other. In spite of (maybe because of) everything. Set between Azran Legacy and Curious Village. Inspired by a post from inthequeensenglish on Tumblr.
1. Ice Cream

"This is the life!" I toss my satchel on one of the beds. I don't even care which one. "No more camping in the wilderness, no more snails, no more dirt—"

Something soft whaps the back of my head. "No more yammering partners, how 'bout that?"

"Come off it, Em!"

I throw the pillow back at her. She catches it easily, laughing and fluffing it up before she puts it back. "Toss you for first turn in the shower?"

I win on heads.

I'm not above staying in the shower till the spray turns cold, even though I know Em'll rib me for it. Three weeks without getting really clean is _too_ long. Turns out I don't need to worry; by the time I've got dressed in clean clothes, Em's sprawled on a bed and out like a light. It's not a bad idea; I'm wiped. I shove my satchel onto the floor and spread myself out on top of the covers.

I wake up, I don't know how much later, hearing "Turkey in the Straw" and the scraping noise of Em opening the window. The song gets louder. It's… tinny. I've heard music like that before, somewhere… it's an ice cream truck, that's what it is, and we're _way_ too old for those. Why is Em leaning half out the window listening for it?

I prop myself up on an elbow. She laughs, laughs like a choir of handbells, and pulls her head in. "Hey Luke, you wanna get some—"

I've worked with her for three months and I've never seen her smile like that. I've also never seen a smile fall off her face like that.

"…ice cream," she whispers. "Right."

"You okay, Em?"

This time her laugh is just a muffled rattle. "Yeah, I'm fine. Those are some soft beds! I forgot I wasn't in London."

The ice cream music keeps getting louder; _dee dee da dum da dee dee da dum, dee dee da dum da dee dee da dum…_ "Sweet tooth?" I ask.

"Not me." Em turns around and slams the window shut. "God, I need that shower. You better not have used all the hot water, Dove." She grabs her bag.

"You all right, Em?"

"I'm fine, I already told you!"

Before I can keep asking questions, she shuts the bathroom door in my face.


	2. Envelopes

"Letter for you, Professaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Layton jerks awake. _How can Luke still be energetic in this heat?!_ Even with summer classes over, they've preferred the office over his flat simply because the university springs for a minimal level of air conditioning.

Nevertheless, Luke rushes in at full speed. "Look! Look, Professor, this one's yellow! Maybe it's—m-maybe it's from Emmy!"

Layton sits up, suppressing a groan when his back complains. (Perhaps Rosa is right; he's getting too old to sleep on the office couch.) "Oh? Let me see."

The boy hands over the envelope, bouncing on his toes. It is, indeed, pale lemon in color, and there is no return address. On examining it more closely, however, he feels his heart sink. "No, my boy. Observe. The paper is of unusually high quality. Then there is the seal"—he turns the letter over—"which is quite elaborate. You remember Emmy's opinion of sealing wax, do you not?"

His apprentice smiles for a moment, remembering. _("It's expensive, it's messy, it drips everywhere, it's always getting stuck in the stamps people use and do you know how easy it is to bypass a wax seal on a letter—?" She'd gone curiously silent at that point, well, curious at the time—)_ Luke's smile fades. "Emmy hates sealing wax."

Layton turns the letter over again; he had meant to end by pointing out the mismatch in handwriting, but the just-barely-thirteen-year-old's face falls another notch and he refrains. "It is quite a unique letter, nevertheless. Perhaps a new puzzle… Luke?" The boy has turned away.

"I wanted it to be Emmy." He stares out the window. "I didn't even look. It's been three months, Professor, why isn't she writing?"

Layton opens his mouth; shuts it again. They have both been searching through the mail all summer (Layton quietly, Luke eagerly), hoping for some missive from the professor's now-former assistant, and finding nothing.

He'd thought he had made it clear that she would be missed, that they hoped to hear from her. He had thought. Perhaps the words he was able to find had not been enough to outweigh those first few awkward weeks after Leon Bronev's arrest, when none of them had been quite sure what to say.

(Luke had jumped, once, when she passed close behind him. He had apologized profusely; she had told him _don't be sorry, it was my damn fault_ , and then flushed and asked pardon for swearing. She had spent two days in police questioning and afterwards left her phone off the hook for the better part of a week. He had found his office put in order at odd hours, sometimes without ever seeing her—)

It was just as they had started to feel comfortable around her again that she had put in her resignation.

"…Professor?" Luke says huskily.

"Hmm?"

"She's… not really coming back… is she." It is a question and not a question. It is an acceptance and an open wound.

"I don't know, my boy," he says at last, because it is the truth.

"I miss her."

 _We haven't talked about this since the day she left… have we?_

He sets the letter aside and stands, moving to put a hand on his (determinedly- _not_ -crying) apprentice's shoulder.

He has no words for the boy.

He misses Emmy too.


End file.
